


As by Grasping

by delgaserasca



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-30
Updated: 2006-03-30
Packaged: 2018-07-16 21:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7285042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wish I was more like you,” Amita finally says, “I wish I could just take what I wanted.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	As by Grasping

Amita watches him from beneath lowered lashes; she’s careful not to show her hand. Terry watches her as she sits suspiciously close to Charlie, laughing up at Don with knowing eyes. She plays the two of them against each other and the most amazing thing about the whole ridiculous scenario is that Terry is certain Amita doesn’t even know what she’s doing. It’s all unconscious on her part and whilst Don is picking up the signals, Terry can tell he’s not really sure what to make of them.

Charlie is oblivious. Amita’s closeness, the brush of her shoulder against his, the smell of her shampoo in the hair that falls across her face like a veil – all of these are distractions from anything beyond the moment he rests in. She has him curled up in the palm of her hand and she _doesn’t know it_. Charlie starts talking about fractals and binomials, and somewhere in all of the technical jargon, Terry loses him completely. Normally at this point, she’d catch Don’s eye and he’d roll his eyes, except now his eyes are on Amita; Amita’s fingers toying with her pen; Amita’s lips curving wide in a smile; Amita’s attention focused on Charlie’s hands making patterns in the air. It’s a hypnotic scene, and more than a little perverse – Don watching Amita watch his brother, and Terry on the outside looking in.

The atmosphere breaks when Alan comes back in from the kitchen; Don’s head snaps up, a little embarrassed, and Terry smiles at his father, neatly covering up her discomfort. Alan notices something is array but misattributes the source, looking between her and Don and raising his eyebrow. Don makes a little sigh of frustration and plays with the label on his beer bottle; Terry looks away. They’re very good at this, at lying. They’ve been doing it for a long time.

The evening moves along comfortably enough: they’re good at this too, at passing time as though the air isn’t taut with heat. They laugh, eat, drink a little, although Terry has to drive back home, yet. When the night comes to a close, she rises to her feet and gets ready to leave. Don watches her go to collect her coat; she can feel his eyes burning into her back. Clichéd, but true. She always knows when he’s looking at her; her skin grows warm, she can’t turn and look him in the eye. She always knows.

And then Amita is standing, too, and Charlie is looking at his watch, surprised by the time. Amita is picking her way across the room, and Don is standing, not looking at Terry anymore, shuffling about on the spot and proffering with his arm, I’ll give you a lift—

“I can drive you home.”

Terry says the words before she’s even thought them through, and she regrets them almost immediately. Amita looks up, a little surprised; Terry smiles a little.

“It’s not exactly out of my way. Come on.”

There’s a slight hesitation on Amita’s part and then she nods, picking up her purse and her jacket. They both say goodbye to the Eppes men before stepping out into the cool night air, Terry still trying to figure out what she’s done and how it can be fixed.

Inside the car, she turns on the engine; Amita sits with one leg slung over the other, shivering a little in the cold. Terry notices the way the younger girl’s skin rises in goose pimples, the smooth, clean lines of her legs as they disappear under her black skirt. Her foot taps to some silent tune playing out inside her head; she catches Terry looking at her and smiles, nervous, perhaps. Terry smiles back. Turns on the heat.

They make small talk on the drive to Amita’s apartment; Terry talks about the weather, the case, Charlie. She jumps between topics effortlessly, filling up the awkward silence with meaningless chatter. She mentally slaps herself; it’s embarrassing, this endless chatter. She can’t work out what’s wrong with her, why she can’t just shut up and drive in silence. Amita, for her part, is polite and carries on her side of the conversation nonchalantly.

Fifteen minutes later, they pull up outside Amita’s apartment, and she moves to get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Not a problem.”

She hesitates, again. “You want to come in for coffee?”

Terry stops. “I don’t—”

“Yeah, okay, never mind,” Amita shakes her head, shy, rummaging through her handbag for her keys. “It was a stupid idea.”

“I have work tomorrow…” Terry adds, somewhat pathetically.

“No, it’s okay,” Amita smiles, and it’s a defensive reflex, Terry can tell. “Really. I understand. Thanks again.”

Terry nods at her, tightly. The atmosphere in the car is tense and heavy. There’s a moment when she wonders if it’s too late to change her mind, wonders why she would want to, wonders what it is that Charlie or Don see in this pretty little girl with dark ringlets and a kindly face, beatific eyes gazing up at her from beneath lowered lashes and suddenly, Terry gets it, she really truly gets it and she wonders how, with her profession, it took her so damn long to catch the signals Amita has been throwing at her all night.

She realises that she’s been staring at Amita for a full minute now, and still the girl makes no move to leave the car. Instead she plays with the hem of her skirt, catching her fingers in a loose thread and pulling it until it catches. She’s biting her lower lip apprehensively; her eyes grow dark. Terry stares at her agape and uncertain. Why doesn’t she just leave?

“You know—” Amita stops. She takes a deep breath and laughs, “This is so stupid.” She shakes her head, her hair shimmering over her face, and now Terry can’t see her face, can’t seek cues from her expressions. It makes her nervous. Yellow light from a nearby streetlamp falls through the window, glinting off the silver pendant Amita wears around her neck; it rests in the dip just above her breasts, and Terry finds that she can’t look away. She doesn’t know what this is or how they got there but she’s frozen, only able to react to the stimuli Amita hands up like a gift on Christmas day.

“I wish I was more like you,” Amita finally says, “I wish I could just take what I wanted.”

“Why don’t you?”

Amita leans across, suddenly, and cups Terry’s face, pressing her lips against hers in a demanding kiss. There’s a break in which Terry doesn’t know how to respond, but then she pushes into the kiss, nipping at Amita’s lower lip; she tastes of mint and paprika and there is no hesitation now, no ambiguity. Terry reaches up to hold her face, threads fingers through her dark hair. Her skull is warm beneath Terry’s fingers, a solid presence, immutable in compare to the flash of tongue Amita slips over her lips, the graze of teeth over swollen flesh.

Terry strains up against her seatbelt, jerking with surprise as Amita runs a hand over her breast, her thumb rotating over Terry’s sensitive skin through her clothes; she moans into Amita’s mouth, pulls back a little on her hair. She wonders if Charlie got this far with Amita, if Don ever imagined such an encounter, the touch of Amita’s downy skin sliding over his, her hands pinching, smoothing, _pushing_ up against his— the idea is enough to incense Terry. She doesn’t know what would hurt her more, Don’s participation or Amita’s. She pushes the girl away roughly, and draws a hand across her bruised mouth.

Breathing deeply, Amita sits back in her seat, visibly offended. “Terry—?”

“Get out of the car.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Just get out of the damn car, Amita.” She’s harsher than she wants to be, and Amita recoils visibly at the words. Then she tightens her lips and gets out, slamming the door behind her. Terry watches as she strides angrily into her apartment block before turning the engine on again. She doesn’t know what she’s doing, she decides; she has no idea what to expect from LA anymore, and she isn’t certain about what she’s just experience. Running a finger across her lips, remembering Amita’s gentle insistence, she blushes; then puts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, heat and adrenaline rushing through her veins. She doesn’t get any sleep that night.

 

 

**end.**


End file.
